


his crown lit up the way

by waywardrenegade



Series: king//lionheart [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc takes a few minutes to study Hank’s sleeping form, to try to see him as others must. But then he thinks about what they don’t get to see...</p>
            </blockquote>





	his crown lit up the way

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so before you read this, it may be prudent to note that this is set in the same universe as ['Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2126325), and while you don't necessarily _have_ to read it first, it will make more sense.
> 
> Title's from Of Monsters and Men's "King and Lionheart" because I like continuity sometimes.

Marc tends to wake up slowly, gangly limb by limb, as he blinks into consciousness. He rubs a hand over his sleepy eyes before raking fingers through his unruly hair, then he stretches out full length until he knocks into Hank usually. Except some mornings, usually when the sky’s still brushed muted pinks and dusty blues, Marc wakes up all at once, hands reaching out instinctively for Hank, who isn’t there. Today is the latter.

Stumbling out of their bed and into a pair of wrinkled sweatpants, Marc pauses at the bathroom sink to swish water in his mouth in anticipation of syrupy slow kisses in the soft light of dawn. He then goes straight for the coffee maker and brews an extra strong pot before pouring two mugs, one black for himself and the other with too much sugar and a splash of hazelnut creamer for Hank.

As Marc suspected, Hank’s in his usual spot on the back deck, long legs tucked under himself on the picnic table bench. His cheek is resting on a page half filled with words. He looks so serene and heartbreakingly beautiful like this. Marc doesn’t know what deity is responsible for bringing such a man into his life, but he’d singlehandedly build him or her a monument of praise and appreciation if he did.

Marc takes a few minutes to study Hank’s sleeping form, to try to see him as others must. He’s lean muscle stretched eloquently over fine bones, tanned skin that adopts faint freckles in the summer sun, silky soft hair that is never out of place, eyes the purest crystalline blue like that of a stream in the mountains, and the most perfect smile you’ve ever seen, genuine and amazing.

But then he thinks about what they don’t get to see. How Hank’s kind to animals and gives them a home without hesitation, the grace he normally possesses completely absent when he’s talked into heated DDR matches with the Staal brothers, the way his grin can turn absolutely filthy when he looks at Marc sometimes, or how utterly ruined he looks after particularly good sex. Out of all the things people who aren’t Marc miss out on, this, Hank relaxed and totally himself in sleep, is Marc’s favorite. It makes his gut do weird, flippy acrobatics.

Marc winds his fingers gently in the finest coppery strands at the base of Hank’s neck and massages his scalp. After a moment, he leans in close to press open mouthed kisses along Hank’s jaw. Hank nestles into his side at that, lets a soft sigh slip from his perfect lips that’s so quiet that Marc would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been listening closely.

“Hey babe, you should get up. You can’t be comfortable, and I brought coffee,” Marc says lowly, his lips just barely brushing the side of Hank’s face with each word.

“Tack, älskling,” Hank replies, syllables a sleepily mumbled mess but endearing nonetheless.

When his eyes meet Marc’s, they’re even more blue than normal, so open and sincere. Marc’s hopelessly gone on Hank, has been the whole year they’ve been together now, and the swell of emotion that bubbles up in his chest feels like it’s going to cause him to burst with how happy he is.

He doesn’t say anything, just tips Hank’s chin in his direction and presses their lips together in a featherlight kiss. It’s unhurried and wonderful, almost too easy for Marc to get lost in the sensations as Hank’s fingertips dance along the thin strip of skin above the waistband of his baggy sweatpants. 

Time seems to slow infinitely as they kiss, like the world’s stopped spinning because they’ve gotten lost so thoroughly in each other. It doesn’t matter that Hank’s been his for a year now because that’s not enough time for him to have learned every facet of what makes him tick. Marc’s not sure he’ll ever have enough time with Hank even if they lived until they were a thousand.

When Hank pulls back a fraction to catch his breath, Marc can’t stop the words from creeping past his lips, hushed and soft, “I love you. So, so much.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said it aloud, hesitant to disrupt what they’ve made for themselves with three little words said too often by those who don’t honestly mean it, but Marc feels it with every fiber of his being. It’s in his every thought and action, and, in the still morning air, he needs Hank to know how hopelessly, desperately in love with him he is.

“Oh, Marc. You’re everything and the world to me, and I love you too. I want you by my side until the very end, now and forever,” Hank says reverently as his face lights with a smile so brilliant the sun could go out and Marc would never notice.

He guides Marc’s face to his yet again and presses his lips, firm, insistent, to every part of skin he can get at. Hank brushes kisses to Marc’s temple, the corner of his quirked lips, his eyelids, and the tip of his nose. Marc’s so deliriously joyous in that moment that it takes him a second to realize that the soft, kneading pressure on his thigh isn’t from Hank’s hands because those are still fisted in his hair.

As Marc acknowledges the grey tabby named Poppy that Hank’s especially fond of, Hank looks on with a private smile at what his life’s become.


End file.
